The Simplest Gifts
by i-prefer-the-term-antihero
Summary: Christmas may not be the happiest time for the Children of Misfortune, still, sometimes it's the simplest things that can bring joy (Written for the Phmonth18 prompts "Song," "Siblings," "Wish," and the Phmonth19 prompt "Flowers" on tumblr!)
1. Tied by a Song

Two children walked through the snow, their little boots sinking into the powder. The girl breathed out, watching her breath form frostbitten clouds in the air before them. The boy, her brother, shivered, putting his hands into his coat pockets.

Lacie stumbled forward to catch up with him, holding onto the crook of his arm.

The town square was quiet, the snow creating an atmosphere of dormancy—though the few people who were there in the little place wore smiles, red noses, and cheerful laughs. They saw some kids putting ornaments on the trees, or throwing snowballs at each other, and though there was longing in the sibling's eyes, neither felt the urge to join them.

As they passed an old church, notes to a song fluttered out into the winter air, as they often do for lonely children on Christmas Eves.

It took a moment for Oswald to realize his sister wasn't following him. He turned to see her staring up at the church's big oak doors, as if tied there by the song.

"Lacie?" he asked, running up beside her.

She stared, her red eyes shimmering like the snow itself, a smile tickling her lips.

Without warning, she grabbed his hand, and dragged him up the steps. But when she reached out towards the doors to open them, Oswald pulled her back.

"Let's go in!" Lacie smiled, joining his game of tug of war.

"We can't!"

"Why not, silly?"

Oswald paused, looking up at the the stones and symbols, thinking hard.

"Well I'm going inside," determination set in to her expression, "If you want to sit outside like a loser you can," she stuck her tongue out, then grinned and waved, heaving open the doors with all her might.

Music spilled out of the cracks.

She was right; it was beautiful, tempting, almost intoxicating.

As long as he could remember, she had always been enchanting by music.

And in truth, when she herself sang her lullabies and songs, he found them, her voice, quite lovely.

"Wait!" he called as she left him out in the cold.

She didn't wait.

The door closed with a large bang, sending puffs of loose flakes his way.

He stood there for a moment. Then, his brows set, his arms crossed, Oswald plopped down on the stone steps, back to the doors, incensed by her recklessness, and disregard for his on wishes. There was nothing wrong with sitting and listening to a choir singing, but there were times for such things, time they surely didn't have. They had to keep going.

She always did things like this; running off without his say-so.

Inside, the world was a dream in white and gold. The glass sent colorful stained patterns onto the floorboards, wreaths and evergreen boughs lined the pews and pedestals, candles shone from the chandeliers and there were even some in an advent wreath at the front. The pretty music was coming from a small circle of women at the front of the church; the notes fluttered like butterflies let loose into the vaulted ceiling of the place, coming down to land on her ears. Lacie's eyes widened, a smile breaking out across her face.

There were a few other people there, praying, alone, together, a pastor studying the scriptures, another kid, trying to get some relief from the cold.

"Hello little one!" a man's voice came from her side. He was wearing long white robes that told her he worked at the church. "And what might you be doing here?"

"I just heard the pretty music and thought I'd stop by to listen!" she beamed.

"Well we're happy to have you." He smiled back. "Would you care to sit?"

Lacie nodded, shimmying into a pew at the back.

The man went about his own business, as she sat there for a little while, watching the music float by. She didn't know how long she'd been sitting there—(Oswald still shivered in the cold outside, but refused to enter on principal)—but someone who was sitting a few pews up stood to leave. Upon passing her, he turned, the gentle smile, transforming into something akin to fear, or disgust.

"Hello sir!" Lacie kicked her feet back and forth.

Without response, he sped his pace, hurrying out.

_I wonder what his problem is_, Lacie mused, returning to the music.

Soon enough, as the light outside continued to fade, another person turned to leave, and when she saw her, her expression morphed too.

This time the man who had spoke to Lacie earlier came up beside her.

"Excuse me, but may I ask whatever the matter is?"

"A…" her voice was quiet, shaking, but passionate enough to hear, "A child of Ill-Omen!"

She pointed an accusing finger and Lacie, as if her existence was a crime.

The proclamation ran its course through the space, and set an end to all the pretty music.

_Oh. This again._

Everyone turned upon the girl in the last pew; standing on their tiptoes to get a good look at her, recoiling, or trying to exit unnoticed.

She hopped up off the pew, standing tall, that defiance reappearing later in the show.

"My name's Lacie," she put a hand on her chest. "And I'd thank you to call me by it."

Outside, Oswald saw the first person leave in a hurry, then as others filed out, he heard them mutter with icy breath _A Child of Ill-Omen._

He stood up quickly, looking back in horror towards the church. All grievance forgotten.

What if they were hurting her? What if they tried to take her away from him? What if…_What if…_

He burst through the doors, his eyes darting across the room until he found his sister standing at the back, the rest maintaining a healthy distance from her, whispering things about misfortune, ill omen, eyes, and the color red.

He marched up to his sister—"Come on, Lacie"—took her hand in his, in the same way she had before, and tried to pull her away from the place.

"But Nii-sama…" she protested softly.

She always thought she could change their minds. That people like that wouldn't always be filled with hate, with fear.

"We're leaving." His voice may have been a child's, but his tone held the finality of an adult's.

They continued to whisper.

He hated to hear those cursed words.

And with that hatred turning cold fingers into fists, he turned towards the crowd, cursing them in return,

"She's not an Ill-Omen. She's my sister."

* * *

"Come on, Lottie, let's make snow angels!" Lily giggled.

The older woman grinned back, and, without a moment's thought, flumped back into the snow.

The child did the same, both waving their arms and legs, creating wings for themselves out of the cold. Fang and Dug stopped and turned, shocked at the childishness of their comrades, then they smiled at each other, trying not to laugh.

"Come on, it's fun!"

"I think we'll—" Fang began, but Dug's body thudding against the ground interrupted him.

Fang rolled his eyes, laughing before he fell beside Lily.

As they lay there in the snow, laughing, watching the flakes fall from the navy sky, perfectly peaceful, perfectly happy, Lottie heard something.

"What is it?" Fang asked when he saw her sit up.

She paused, listening.

Light notes to drifted to her ears. It was a sad song, sung by a deep voice—as if he the notes themselves were trying to reach heaven, but they were pulled back to earth by the depth of his voice.

It was coming from the church on the grounds. It was a Christmas song, an old one, about bells and hope and stars and children.

She stood—careful to avoid messing up her snow creation—before rushing towards it, as if a string was connected her to the words.

"Hey, Lottie!" Lily called.

She pranced up the steps, pressing her ear to the cracked oak doors.

_Could it be?_

No, surely he wouldn't. Surely she wasn't hearing this, hearing _him_. Surely this wasn't what she thought.

It was Glen's voice.

There were rumors that their master could sing, but, ever the strong and silent type, he would never prove or deny any such allegations. Maybe he didn't think it was worth his time (as they often found was the case with him and most fun things) maybe he was embarrassed to do it front of people, especially his servants—(it was, however, hard to think of Glen embarrassed)—maybe there was some other reason, like it reminded him of something long ago, and he didn't want to talk about it…

She placed her hand on it.

Should she go in?

As long as she didn't, nothing would prove her wrong, would prove that it was him.

Because surely it wasn't him.

And if it was, he probably didn't want her coming in and interrupting him. He might yell at her, or punish her.

They never intended on telling Glen, but there were a few Christmas carols they practiced every year—more like Lily _made_ them practice, (though they grew to quite enjoy it)—just for a little something to keep them going during the season. And the song floating through the door just so happened to be one they had practiced.

She took a deep breath.

_Could it be?_

Could she? Could she find the strength?

Dare she?

She let it out in the form of harmony, pouring from her own lips, the source of the music coming from both inside and out now.

A snowball fight had broken out behind her, and their shenanigans came to a halt at the sound of her voice.

The voice inside stopped too.

She should have guessed as much.

She took another breath, her heart pounding, but she didn't stop.

As she continued, somehow, the voice inside decided to continue, softer now.

If she moved forward—steps to the song, steps in the snow—what would he do? Would he run off like some scared animal? Should she stay out here for the entirety of the tune, never proving or denying her suspicions?

There was nothing left to do.

Her harmony wasn't any good out here.

On a particularly long note, she pushed open the doors, stepping in on her little red heels.

Upon seeing her, he shot up.

The singer was, in fact, Glen. All black clothes and hair, his cheeks bright red—(she'd never seen him so embarrassed before. But she probably didn't look much different).

Before they could decide to stop or continue the song, before he could bolt, or she could pull him back, Lily ran in through the door, Fang and Dug at her heels.

"Hey! Whjya stop?" she demanded.

They stared at each other, eyes wide.

Maybe he just didn't think anyone wanted to listen.

She nodded at Lily, and started at the place they had left off.

Dug came in next, his voice even deeper than Glen's, (and not nearly so melodic), still a welcome change to his usual silence. Lily was a bit unpracticed, but the high notes fell from her tongue. Fang next, admiration is his eyes as they turned to Lottie, who couldn't help but smile.

Glen looked at the ground, and didn't resume.

Lily stopped, puffing her cheeks in exasperation. She scuttled up to her master, pulling on his cloak.

"Lily!" Lottie stopped too, running up to grab her, scoop her up, and stop her (causing Fang and Dug to stop as well) "You can't talk to Glen-sama that way!" she shout-whispered.

"But he's not singing!"

"He doesn't have to if he doesn't want to."

There was a moment. Then—

"It's alright," the words were dull and held the usual lack of emotion, still they were the last thing she expected to hear.

She looked up, sure her shock was written all over her face.

Fang took Lily from her, and placed her on his shoulders as the two of them started again.

Charlotte and Dug joined quickly, but this time Glen's voice joined theirs.

It made her want to cry, to hear him singing. All of them, together, like a family, and _him_…but, like all moments of paradise, the song had to come to an end.

And with the last note, Glen pulled his cloak close, and marched out, leaving nothing but cold wind in his wake.

They didn't know that was a song that had once pulled Lacie, out of the cold, and that he was singing to remember her. They didn't even know if he enjoyed singing with them, or if he hated every second. They didn't know if he felt the same way they did.

But what they did know, was that it would never happen again.


	2. Bound by A Wish

"Close your eyes. Now...make a wish!"

* * *

"I just want you to have a good Christmas, Vince!"

Gilbert, brushing off a place on the snowy cobblestones, sat down beside his brother, handing him a piece of the bread he had spent much of the evening trying to steal.

He wore a smile, but his eyes were tired.

_Do you really mean that, Gil?_

There was a new cut on Gil's leg since that morning, his raggedy cloak was even dirtier than before.

Vincent had learned to stop asking; Gil often lied and said the cuts and bruises meant nothing, or, if he told the truth, it just made Vincent feel bad.

He was so small, so young. They both were. To be this alone, this wanting. They didn't deserve this.

Just because of his stupid red eye.

Vincent took the bread, brushing his hair over that curse.

He didn't deserve this.

His brother didn't deserve this.

It was clear he didn't know it, but Gilbert's words were like daggers to Vincent. Though he might have meant them to be encouraging, they dove straight for his heart.

_I just want you to be happy._

_I just want you to have a good Christmas._

Sharp pains straight for the beat.

Because, how could he? How could he have a good Christmas when they had nothing? When they could watch other kids ice skating, having snowball fights, eating candy canes, pressing their noses against shop windows, pointing at the toys and saying _I want this for Christmas, Mommy!_

Watch, and watch them go by. Never to join the games. No one to turn to who would buy them the things they wanted. No one to turn to. Not even a family, a nice fire to warm up by, or a Christmas dinner. They had to start asking for smaller, insignificant things—things they could actually receive.

They started asking for only each other's happiness.

And it was still too much to ask.

How could he be happy when he knew there was no way Gil could be?

_I just want you to have a good Christmas, Vince._

Did he really mean that?

Was that the only thing? No toys in the shop windows? Not even a decent meal? A bit of warmth from the cold?

Surely he didn't.

How could _his_ happiness be enough?

Because he, Vincent, was the only thing keeping Gil from a normal happy life. If he just left him he'd be able to find a home, a family. Without him, their parents probably wouldn't have abandoned him. Gilbert would be having a nice Christmas, opening gifts, eating cookies, by a cozy fire. He could be one of those kids with the rosy cheeks, and the spoiled rotten hearts.

_If it weren't for me._

Vincent was Gilbert's chain. Tethering him to the gutters, the harsh words, and even harsher world. Without him, the world would surely be soft and cushioned, not full of sharp edges.

But if Gilbert just broke the link, he could still have that life, if he just left him behind...

_Please don't leave me behind, Gil._

The stars were especially bright that night. Cold shining speckles in a navy coat of sky.

Maybe it was fitting. It was Christmas Eve after all. Maybe the stars were trying to tell them that hope was not lost, that light remained.

Or maybe they were just a bunch of stupid lights, too far away to grant them any warmth.

He didn't think he could ever find his way by them, by something so far from earth. Maybe they were just a bunch of shiny trinkets beneath someone else's Christmas tree, candles on someone else's mantle piece, and if he reached out to touch them they would turn to coal.

He saw that kind of light in his brother's golden eyes too. Hope, _keep going, we'll make it through this_, surrounded by the dark.

Which would win out in the end? The darkness of the light? Black or white? Navy or gold? The stars, or the spaces in between?

If Vincent reached out to touch his brother…would he ruin him too?

"Something wrong, Vince?"

Those eyes. Shimmering gold. Unending black.

Vincent clung to him all the same.

"Nothing, Nii-san! I'll be happy this Christmas as long as you're happy!"

* * *

"Okay...Open your eyes!"

As Jack pulled his hands from Vincent's vision, the world was so bright it was almost blinding.

A Christmas tree—tall as 3 Jacks—was the centerpiece of the atrium, ascending alongside the staircase, to the ceiling. Tinsel spun and weaved its way around its boughs, and ornaments shimmered like sunlight on ocean waves. Presents littered the base, a little moat of jewels and _dare he ask?_

"Are...are those for…_us_?"

His voice was a tiny, shivering thing.

For, surely they weren't.

Surely after all this time those glittering boxes couldn't be for the the children who had nothing, who had never been given a gift in their life.

All that gold.

Like the stars. Like Jack's hair, and Gilbert's eyes. Like Vincent's eye—the one that wasn't corrupted by the color red.

A thing like him didn't deserve gifts. They would surely rot beneath his gaze.

Although…red was there too. Many colored wrappings, holly berries, and ornaments…red and green, gold and silver.

Why would they put red in the midst of all that gold? Why would they infect the lively green, the rich silver, with the violence of red?

Did they not know the nature of such a color?

Surely they weren't for him, no. They would be for the servants before they were for him.

"Nope," Jack grinned mischievously, "they're _alll_ for me!"

Glen rolled his eyes before wordlessly kneeling down to pick two up, handing one to each of the children.

_To Vincent_, the tag read.

And the other, _To Gilbert._

Before he even opened it, Vincent's hands started to shake, and he felt his eyes burning with tears.

_For me?_

Such a simple thing. Such a small question.

Such a big gesture.

How could he believe that?

Still, it was written there in pretty curly letters.

The other three turned to him, eyes wide.

How could they want to give him anything? How could any of them care so much as to give something of themselves away to him? How could he hold the piece he received, be careful, cherish it, never let it break? How did they know he wouldn't just destroy it, like he did all the lives around him?

"What's wrong Vince?" Gilbert's worried voice cut in.

_I just wish this could last forever._

* * *

"Earth to Vince!"

"Ohh Sewer Rat~!"

As Vincent looked up from his sort of trance, he saw his brother's concerned face—older now, less small, less dirty and weak, but also he…smiled less, now, somehow. Then he shot a nasty look at the Hatter, (who smiled pleasantly), before silently reading the tag on the present in his hand.

_To Vincent, Love Gilbert._

Even now, the question ran through his brain; _Do you really mean that, Gil?_

He glanced up at the room. At the assorted mix of people, from different dukedoms. He and Gilbert were standing in the doorway (Echo in the hallway behind him), like he didn't quite belong, like he wouldn't quite fit in with the rest of them, like his dash of red wouldn't fit in with their own little golden world.

He'd come to give Gilbert his gift, and be on his way. That was all. He didn't intend to stay.

And by the sharpness to the Hatter's eye, and his brother's embarrassed glances, he knew he wasn't wanted.

He didn't want to ruin his brother's day. All that mattered was that Gilbert was happy, even if he wasn't a part of that happiness.

Still, his brother had decided to give him a gift, despite how Vincent had set his expectations against the possibility, and his protests aloud.

After Gilbert insisted once more, Vincent pulled on the ribbon, opening the box.

A pile of cookies beamed at him. Decorated as snowmen, snowflakes, gingerbread men, and Christmas trees. Some of the decorations, however, were notably more well done than others.

"I made them for you" Gilbert, rubbed the back of his neck abashedly, "I hope you like them."

"And we helped decorate them!" Alice called, and Oz nodded happily.

Ah, that explained the discrepancy.

Although…he didn't think that Gilbert's little posse even liked him, why would they help him decorate a present for him? They probably just thought it was a game or something.

In truth, he wanted them all to be from Gil…

"You can probably guess which one's from me!" Break sang.

Vincent couldn't see it, but he surmised he'd probably find a cookie hiding somewhere, decorated in messy red ink that said "die, Sewer Rat, die", or a snowman caricaturized as him, or a gingerbread man with a stake through its heart…or something like that. He made a mental note to repay him the courtesy later.

"I'll think of you as I bite their heads off, Mr. Hatter," he smiled at him.

Break shoved his fork rather forcefully into a pastry, though his expression didn't falter.

Gilbert seemed like he wanted to scold him—or maybe both of them—but thought better of it.

Still, while perhaps a rather unimpressive present to others, this meant a lot to Vincent.

He never wanted toys—(he always tore up his toys anyways)—or books, or clothes, or even jewels. Since the beginning, all he wanted was for his brother to be happy.

He had always thought that the reason Gilbert had become so interested in cooking was because, back then, they had nothing, not even food. And the thought that he would make something special for him, now that he could, as if trying to reach back in time and give it to his past self…

"I love them Gil, thank you!" he threw his arms around him in a superfluous show of affection.

"Uhh n-no Problem." Gilbert patted his back awkwardly.

Vincent closed the box and turned to leave, but Gilbert grabbed his shoulder.

"Are you sure you don't want to...stay?"

"No, no, it's fine!" Vincent put on that plastered smile, and hit play on his pre-prepared response, "I couldn't possibly impose on your day."

"Oh? But you impose on _my_ day all the time. Often by your mere presence."

He glared at the Hatter again, finishing, "I know when I'm not wanted."

"Okay well...I hope you have a good Christmas, Vince!" Gilbert gave him a genuine smile.

"I will!" He waved goodbye.

_I just want you to be happy, Gil. Even if it's without me. _

_Even if I have to erase myself to do it. _


	3. Reminded by a Flower

Kevin crouched beside a flowerbed. Most of the flowers were white, especially considering the snow, but as he dusted off the frost he found a single red bloom amongst the rest.

"Which of them is to be tonight's victim?" a voice only he could hear said behind him.

He glanced over to the group it was referring to, which probably looked like a lavish dinner table to the Chain.

Christmas had taken over the town. Evergreen trees were set up like well-decorated sentries at the corners of streets, a large one guarding the town square. Candles, tinsel, ribbons, bells, and other assorted decoration had claimed shops and houses as their own, inside and out.  
There was barely a person without a candy cane, gingerbread or other cookie in their mouth. The children were especially affected by its cheer, making angels and fights out of the cold.

People did litter the area, carolers, rich folks in suits and fancy dresses, chatting in benches, poor people in rags sharing bread and a smile, kids slipping and giggling as they fell on on the ice, families, parents holding their children's' hands, friends drinking together.

The world rarely looked so alive, so…merry. Often he wouldn't care, his eyes glazed with the potency of his goal…Today was different.

He returned his gaze to the flora, reaching down and picking the red bloom.

"Master?" Albus asked.

* * *

_He had never seen the place so alive. The manor, the family, always radiated a sort of warmth, but the glow of the assorted candles, the fires in their places—picture perfect, like everything else— the reflections in the ornaments and plates glittering like the sunset on the ocean were enough to make anyone feel the cheer of the time of year. The sweet scent of pine flittered down from the trees, the aroma of cakes, gingerbread, and other treats drifting in and out of each room. The hubbub of party guests, along with music, floated in the air like butterflies drawn by the lamplight. _

_Kevin stood by the door, his eyes sharp, surveying the room, the guests, like a guard dog, always trying to find a threat, never fully relaxed. It was his job of course, but the festivities didn't appear to interest him in general. The guests, with their fanciful dresses, words, and smiles, didn't seem to notice the young man either, like he was just a decoration, a painting in black, white, and red, on the back wall. _

_Two did notice him, however: a rather large man, with a brown—greying—beard, wearing a nice black suit, (the tie only slightly askew), with a white flower on his lapel, a smile on his face, and a little girl with short blonde hair sitting on one of his shoulders. _

_"Roman-sama," Kevin bowed to his master. "Do you require my services?"_

_He laughed a little. "No, no…Well, yes. Actually…seeing as it's Christmas, little Emily wants to give you something."_

_Kevin blinked, as if waiting for the punchline. The thought that his master's daughter would give him, a servant, a gift for Christmas, was at the least improper, at the most mad. _

_Upon seeing the quizzical look on his face, Roman grinned. "Come now, it's Christmas! Will you not allow one little gift?" he leaned over and spoke behind his hand, (though she could probably still hear him), "if you don't accept, the little tyrant might just get offended. We wouldn't want that, would we? Who can tell what her majesty's ruling would be?"_

_"Please, I couldn't possibly accept—"_

_"Keeviin!" The little girl moaned. "Just let me do something nice for you, you dummy!"_

_He blinked. He knew The Sinclairs to be both benevolent and stubborn, but this was something else. _

_"My apologies, Ojousama," he bowed. _

_The little girl had been attempting to hide something by keeping it behind her father's back. Roman now lifted her off his shoulders, giving her to the floor. She pattered up to Kevin and offered him the gift with the innocent smile only little girls are capable of. _

_It was a red flower. _

_He blinked, reaching down and plucking it from her hand. _

_"It's a…I forget what they're called. But I've only ever seen these flowers be white. I'd never seen a red one, and it made me think of your eyes!"_

_The aforementioned eyes widened. _

_"See, I've never seen a person with red eyes either! I think they're really pretty…and I just thought maybe you and the flower should be together!" She put her hands behind her back and swayed back and forth. _

_Others had noticed his eyes too...'noticed' was a bit of an understatement. At her age he often got bullied for his strange appearance, but as he grew older people would often avoid eye contact, or seem very uneasy beneath his gaze…and those were some of the milder reactions. _

_"Well, what do you say?" Roman said like someone had just complimented his young son.  
Kevin cleared his throat and spoke properly and simply. "Thank you…I appreciate it," he added when she continued staring at him. _

_She grinned, giving a small curtsey. "Good. Then I won't have to behead you for your impudence!" _

_Something of his expression must have shown his shock because her father laughed, patting her head, ruffling her hair, "Always the little jester, this one."_

_"Father! You'll mess up my hair!" the Sinclair girl put her hands on her head, scowling at him. _

_"Sorry, sunshine!"_

_She took his hand, dragging her father back out into the party. _

_"We've leave you to keep manning the fort!" Roman saluted, and Emily waved. _

_Kevin leaned back against the wall, twirling the stem, watching the petals twist like a dancer in a red dress, trying to hide his smile._

* * *

Kevin twisted the stem between his thumb and forefinger.

The same flower, but the times were so different.

A lot can change in a year.

"Master?" Albus asked again.

Kevin stood, looking the way of the painting-like scene the Chain looked at as a menu.

"It's Christmas," he said softly.

On this day last year, he was in a warm manor, the knight of an even warmer family. On this day last year he was a part of these traditions and games, even if on the sidelines.

Now he was cast out of that world, and no fires warmed his skin, no glittering lights peppered his vision, no candy or cake gracing his tongue…Not that having come now could sooth the ache in his stomach.

"And?"

His eyes darted from the twirling children to the twirling petals in his hand.

But others could still enjoy the warmth of this day. Even he was alone, and cold, his eyes attuned to the dark, others still gave each other gifts, and told stories, and ate sweets in the firelight. Others still had families they could sit with, and who they would be devastated to lose…especially tonight.

He began walking forward, tossing the bloom to the ground, it landing like a drop of blood on the snow.

"I won't be killing anyone tonight."

* * *

"Break! Break!" the little girl toddled up to him, her feet carrying her as fast as they could in the snow, causing her to nearly topple over in her oversized coat. "I—" she panted, "I found something for you!"

She held up the bouquet of unevenly picked flowers like a trophy of war.

"Mother said you're supposed to put flowers on people's graves." Sharon explained once she'd caught her breath, "I don't really know what that means, but I made sure to pick the prettiest ones I could find."

He blinked at her, taking them in an almost ginger way. It took him a moment to notice the red bloom hiding, slightly wilted, amongst the white.

"Do…Do you like them?" she asked, drawing circles in the snow with her boot.

He tried to smile, "Yes. Thank you, Sharon."

Reim caught up with his friend, then gasped when he saw the makeshift bouquet.

"Sharon! You shouldn't have picked those! I was just reading somewhere; the red variety is very rare!"

"You have nothing better to do then read about flowers?" she put her hands on her hips, "Why not pick up a book about something exciting," she flourished with her hands, "something that will actually strengthen your mind… like a romance novel!"

"Shelly told you you're not ready to read those!"

As the children squabbled—(he tried not to smirk at their fight…he'd slipped her that romance novel)—Break carried the bundle to said graves.

He pieced out the group, setting a few blooms on each, until only the red one was left.

As he let it drift onto the last stone, he murmured, "Merry Christmas, Emily."

* * *

Break strolled through the frosty Pandora garden. Reim had left his notebook back here—(…either that or someone hid it from him)—and he had commissioned (more like drilled) everyone in a nearby radius to help him look for it.

The garden was mostly barren at this time, though there were a few flowers that bloomed in winter. In particular, white blooms lined the pathway near the ground. He thought nothing of them until he rounded the corner to find a bit of a disaster on the pathway:

Petals were strewn about the stones, the stem in fractured pieces, like flower had offended someone, and this was there revenge.

Break knelt down and picked what was left of the bloom, guessing exactly who had decided to take whatever frustrations he had out on the innocent flower—(he made a mental note enhance those frustrations later).

"Oh, there you are Break!" Sharon ran up to him, hugging Reim's notebook to her chest, "I found—Oh! What's this?" She knelt down, observing the crime. "Who would do such a thing?"

"I think a rat may have gotten in here."

She frowned, standing back up. "That's too bad, I would have liked to put it in a vase. I think I remember someone telling me the red ones are very rare variety. It's pretty... It kind of reminds me of your eye."

He tried to laugh it off, crushing what was left of the flower and standing, joining her to return Reim's property, thinking all the while it probably reminded Vincent of his eye too.

* * *

"What is it, Sharon?" Reim asked.

She had stopped, before proceeded to running off to a nearby patch of flowers.

He couldn't recall their name, but when he caught up to her, he saw that they were white flowers, blending in to the surrounding snow. Sharon knelt down before them and plucked one.

The one in her hand, however, was red.

"It's been a long time since I saw a red one of these," she said softly, twisting it in her finger.

"Yes," he leaned over her shoulder, trying to get a better look at it, "I believe they're quite rare."

She proceeded to add this red flower to one of the bouquets she was carrying.

"My apologies for the detour," she mentioned properly as he helped her back up.

They finished the rest of their journey, stopping before the graves. She knelt down and set one down at each respectively, removing the red flower and carefully placing it on top of the headstone.

His wife tried to smile as she said, "Merry Christmas, Mother. Merry Christmas, Break."


End file.
